Journal

We didn’t go on many vacations when I was young, but the ones that we did go on I remember fondly. We’d stay in a caravan in Wales, a tent in Cornwall, or a tent (again) in Wales (again). I liked those vacations, but the one that struck me so strongly was staying in a hotel in Paddington, London. I’d never experienced anything like it, and I was in love.

I barely remember any of the specifics, but I remember the feeling. I still get that feeling when I think about London now. Deep in my stomach, a fluttering that feels like it could make my whole body start shaking with awe and joy. A bit over the top? Maybe, but that’s how I felt as a young boy in London for the first time, and it’s how I feel today.

I decided in that moment that I’d move to London when I grew up. That I’d experience this feeling every day. I imagined a lot of things as a kid that didn’t come true though, and I don’t know if I really believed that this would happen—but I painfully wanted it to. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It felt like home more than my hometown did.

When I was old enough to afford it and to travel on my own, I’d catch the train to London by myself. I’d walk for miles, catch the tube, and ride the top deck of the bus—right at the front. I’d go everywhere, but I’d always end at the same place: Trafalgar Square. Sitting on the steps in front of the National Gallery filled me up with fluttering.

Occasionally I’d drag a friend along with me, and I’d take them to all of the same places. I’d sit with them on the steps of Trafalgar Square. I don’t know if they felt the same feeling that I did, but I like to imagine that they did. That it would be impossible not to. That this place is simply magic and casts a spell on anyone who walks into its midst.

A few months into a whirlwind romance (with the incredible woman who would somehow agree to marry me), we decided to move to London. It was finally happening. I still didn’t have any money to my name, but that didn’t matter. We were going on an adventure. We moved into a tiny room in a tiny flat right next to Hackney Central.

We stayed in that flat for about a year before the landlord decided to move back in, but that year felt like 10 wonderful years. I grew up in that one year. We grew up together. I got a new job at a startup, I grew a terrible mustache, and I plucked up the courage to propose (fortunately for me, through initially-ambiguous tears, she said yes).

In what I hope is a sign of my sheer commitment and not my poor planning, I decided that the day leading up to the proposal would be spent entirely outside. Under an overcast sky we rowed on the Serpentine, rode horseback side-by-side, and spread a wonderful picnic out on the grass—all in my favorite park in London: Hyde Park.

Fast-forward a few months and we’re living in another (slightly bigger) room in a (much bigger) house share. We moved our small bundle of belongings there in a shopping trolley from Tesco, because we moved less than 5 minutes walk up the road—near London Fields. We were saving for our wedding and turning this city into our home.

I still can’t believe this next part is actually true, but our wedding took place a few months later inside the Barbican Conservatory. One of our favorite places in this wonderful city, and soon to be the backdrop as we agreed to spend our lives together. A great huge concrete wall, covered top to bottom in the most wonderful plants you’ve ever seen.

This place—this city—that I’d dreamt about since I was a small boy sharing a hotel room with his parents and sisters, it was home. It held so many of the largest moments in my life. It filled me with that fluttering feeling every time I stepped out of the door. It cradled me and my wife and our relationship as we discovered ourselves—together.

I’ll skip the rest for now, suffice to say this wonderful place forever lives in my heart and in that deep part of my stomach. I live thousands of miles away today, but London will never stop feeling like home. I’m lucky to feel that way about a couple of places now, but London was the first. It was a literal dream come true, and I’m still in love.

I have a Post-it note stuck to my computer display that says simply:

Make something every day and share it

It’s advice for me, but it could be advice for you too, if you’d like. The best ideas (I think) are sort of simple and silly. Making something every day and sharing it isn’t a grand plan or even much of a goal, but I’m almost certain it will lead to good things eventually.

It’s hard to quote ancient wisdom without feeling like a Live Laugh Love poster, so I’ll try to share this more plainly. Over the years I’ve seen something like this shared (and attributed to lots of sources):

• Thoughts → Words
• Words → Actions
• Actions → Habits
• Habits → Character
• Character → Destiny

The point being that you can ultimately control your destiny by starting with your thoughts. Think mean things when your friends find success? You might be destined to have no friends (for example).

I won’t walk through every step, because I’m sure you could do that yourself—but I tried this recently when I realized my [uncharitable] actions weren’t aligned with my values (thoughts).

It turns out that (literally) a couple of minutes spent following a thought along to some big conclusion can have a pretty big impact on your life (hopefully for the better, but you do you).

Sometimes you only need to read 10% of a book to get 90% of the value it has to offer. The Artist’s Way is like that. The book is great (I still haven’t read it all), but there’s one idea in there—and it’s a super simple idea—that changed my life: morning pages.

Writing morning pages just means sitting down every morning and writing 750 words stream-of-consciousness. You don’t need to have a big idea (or even a small idea). You don’t need to write a diary (but you could). You just start writing and stop at 750 words.

Some mornings, my brain is so empty that I simply start writing “I have no idea what to write…” and hope that the words eventually come. Every time, they do—and all of a sudden 750 words feels like too few. I could go on for hundreds more. Thousands even.

It seems unlikely that 750 random words repeated daily could change someone’s life, but it’s changed mine. Often it works in the most fun way, too: you simply get sick of writing the same damn thing every day, so you do something about it instead of writing about it again.

I’ve had profound realizations. I’ve unearthed feelings that were buried deep. I’ve discovered ideas for creative projects that I might otherwise never have. I’ve talked shit about people (mostly just me). I’ve talked to myself about anything and everything.

I don’t show anyone my morning pages. I rarely look at any of them again. I’m sure that if I did I’d barely remember writing them. Giving myself 20 minutes every morning to write (and more importantly, to think) is just the best act of self-care I’ve ever known.

I was walking past Bushrod Park the other evening when two boys came running out through the gate. “Weren’t you supposed to be home by eight o’clock” the one boy asked. The other, without missing a beat, squeezed the side of his watch and said “Siri, change the time to eight o’clock”, and again (louder) “Siri! change the time to eight o’clock!”

I can’t tell you what I’m going to do in the future, but I can certainly tell you about the past. I was born and raised in a small city in England called Worcester. Yes, Worcestershire; yes, the sauce. My childhood was mostly great, in the way that childhoods tend to be when you’re just existing and have few prior assumptions about the world. We didn’t have much—but then again, I wasn’t very aware of folks who had more.

Growing up in a small English town (if I’m honest—it’s only a city because we had a cathedral) often means that you get to know everyone pretty well. You’d typically play with the neighborhood kids and maybe pop around for a cup of tea. I lived in 10 different houses in 10 different neighborhoods over the years though, so this wasn’t my experience. Small town community might have existed, but I wasn’t much a part of the community.

That might be a weird way to start talking about my history, but it’s part of the reason I’m writing it. Many years (and 10 more houses) later, I find myself living in Oakland, California—far away from that small town, and trying again to build community. I took a detour through Cardiff, Birmingham, London and Brooklyn, sometimes staying just long enough to almost find community. Finally, with no plans to move, it’s one of the things I now most want to do.

So how will writing help? Many of the best events in my life have been caused by transmitting some words via the internet. I figure if a handful of words can help me meet my wonderful wife, gain countless friends, find talented collaborators and enjoy the work that I do, they might help me go further still. My life is richer today than I thought possible as a small boy, and the curse of being British is the persistent whisper: “tch—haven’t you got enough”.

Truly, I’m so grateful. I’ve explored the world. I’ve learned everything about anything that I can. I’ve moved thousands of miles to a place that I love. I’ve made some cool stuff with some even cooler people. I’m lucky enough to be married to the world’s best person, and lucky too that we’ve got the world’s best dog (your dog is great too; all dogs are great). When I pause, though? I want to find my people, and I want to stick around long enough for that cup of tea.

So here I am, writing some words on the internet to start exploring community and in search of my people—but who are they? I’ll keep it pretty simple: kind and creative people. Of course, I’m lucky enough to live in an area of the world home to many kind, creative people. I’m also not planning on leaving any time soon. The best way to build a community of kind and creative folks, though? To be kind and creative yourself, of course. To make, not simply to wait.

These are the first few words and might not do much alone. They might never be read by anyone, to be honest. But they’re less for you than they are for me, right now. A small token of a big intention. If you’re a kind and creative person, do reach out. One day we might share a cup of tea.